


I watch them all as they fall

by glasbluete



Category: Death Note
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Matt's POV, More angst, Religion, he's bitter and broken and dark, references to drugs and alcohol, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasbluete/pseuds/glasbluete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But so it goes, and so it will go on.<br/>Me, following him mindlessly. Without doubt. At least without doubt shown.<br/>He, praying, hoping, wishing, waiting, behind his hard shell of I-am-better-than-you and Nobody-can-touch-me-ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I watch them all as they fall

**Author's Note:**

> I am in a writing fever, and sorting through old-ish shit. This was written in a rather bad mood, but I kind of like it and it's very short so well, might as well post it.  
> I hope I can write longer things soon too (and actually continue/finish multi-chapter things) but probably there be lots of tidbids coming up in the next time.  
> I have no idea what I'm doing with my writing, please bear with me.
> 
> All the love!

Oh, god. Oh god.  
I wish I was a believer, sometimes.  
It'd make shit easier to deal with, but really, I don't know how people do it.  
How he does it.  
With his rosary, and his prayers, confessing his sins. You'd think he would be too smart, too egoistic, too fucking mental to be faithful, but he is.  
Jesus Christ.  
Oh Lord, I have sinned.  
I am here to atone.  
Click-click-click go the beads, his mouth moving silently.  
I never tire of watching him, being the good Christian, while I myself give in to temptation and don't even care anymore.  
Believing, being religious, would make it so much easier to deal with the crap we do daily.  
For the greater good, he tells me, counting his beads listlessly, mouthing voiceless prayers, trying to drown out the screaming in his head which I'm sure is there, even though he would never admit it.  
I wonder, does anyone except me notice them? Does anyone care?  
Does he really believe in it, in God, in sin, in atonement, or is it just hammered so deep into his skull that it is just mindless, calming practice by now, over and over again?  
Taking another swig of some cheap, illegally sold to us vodka, I try to concentrate on my work. But fuck all, really, what are we doing?  
I don‘t know anymore, and I doubt that he does.  
For the greater good.  
Trying, trying so hard to save people who don‘t know that they need saving, trying to cleanse the whole world of sin while we ourselves are the biggest sinners.  
But so it goes, and so it will go on.  
Every war has casualties, and he won't stop before ours is over, even if he dies trying.  
Me, following him mindlessly. Without doubt. At least without doubt shown.  
Him, praying, hoping, wishing, waiting, behind his hard shell of I-am-better-than-you and Nobody-can-touch-me-ever.  
We're turning in the void, spinning, together, even though he thinks himself alone, even with me screaming, I am here, please, see me, I would follow you anywhere.  
I will follow you to hell, or wherever it is that people like us go.  
With my broken soul, my sinful heart, my yearning madness and my fucked-up mind, I would jump off of a bridge if you needed me to.  
But he, that blonde, broken, oh-so-damaged and messed up and turned over saint, he is too far gone to realise this. He's buried too deep into his goals, his wishes never to become true, his memories and fears and _hopes_ , his rights and wrongs, his angels and demons, to even see what it means to me, to acknowledge how far I would go, to feel how far we've both fallen already and how much deeper the pit is.  
So with more alcohol, more caffeine, more nicotine, more god-knows-what, I'll take whatever I get, we both push ourselves, farther and deeper, away from the surface but not nearer to the core, to right the wrongs that have not been done by us instead of reflecting our own mistakes.  
Sometimes, when late night slips over to early morning, and we are drained and longing for rest and comfort, none of which sleep can provide, he almost gets back up, nearly wakes up from this fever dream, left shivering and sweaty but stronger, he just about emerges from the waves, sputtering up water and coughing and still caught in the storm, but breathing again.  
Almost, but never quite completely.  
Then, his lips feel soft, warm, even full of love, like they used to, but he doesn't mean it, not really. This has become distraction. This is keeping up the farce. It is functioning and superficial comfort, it is for me, but he needs this too, or so I keep telling myself.  
This is not going completely batshit crazy.  
No matter how far you, your mind, your personality, your soul or whatever is in there is gone, your body stays here, wherever that is, it has to. It can't leave, not yet.  
It's tragic and simultaneously hilarious, really, just how much we sacrifice of ourselves, maybe even all of us, every last piece, even if we don't notice it. We all leave parts of us behind, they get bigger and bigger, more and more, and if we would just look over our shoulders we would see the piles of us, discarded and forgotten, on the path in the past, but we don't, because who could stay sane if they saw how carved, how hollow they were?  
But time, time now is not the same for me anymore. It used to seem like one straight, narrow road, not much way to either side, no escape.  
But now it keeps changing, behind and before me, keeps blurring in a haze of alcohol and work and himhim _him_.  
Sweat and breath and smoke and vodka and chocolate.  
Repeat.  
I can't keep up with him, I lack the crucial piece.  
Faith.  
In god, in him, in myself.  
In whatever is left of that to believe in.  
All I can do is cling on to the straws that are held out to me, scrambling and sliding and fighting not to fall, because once I let go, I will be gone completely.  
And so will he.  
I might not be that important, I might be virtually invisible to him, but I am his anchor to here, to now, to reality.  
And if I slip up, he will fall down with me, even if he might not notice it.  
So with another swig of booze, I tell myself, keep going. Just one more step.  
And one more.  
Until you reach finish, congratulations, you've beaten the boss.  
If that is possible.  
Click-click-click go the beads, around and around, his lips mouthing prayer after prayer.  
He stops to look up at me, smiles faintly without letting it get into his eyes. He knows he's been click-clicking for way longer than he used to, and he also knows it won't change a goddamn thing, but so be it.  
With a few light steps he's beside me on the ragged couch, grabbing the fueling liquid, drinking. Is drinking a sin, I wonder, but I really don't care, and neither does he. If it is then it's just one more grain of sand on the mountains of rocks we've both piled up.  
For the greater good, his pleading look says.  
"Got anything?“, he murmurs, his voice rough and dry, as if he'd been screaming his praysers at the top of his lungs for hours, which in his mind, he probably had.  
Get to the finishline, even if you have to crawl there.  
If there even is a finishline for us.  
If not, I will let him pull me down into the deep, black emptiness, and hope, shiver, wish, pray, that it will hold some relief.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joy Division's 'Insight', which I think fits this.  
> [http://rock.genius.com/Joy-division-insight-lyrics ](Listen%20and%20lyrics)


End file.
